Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD51QRE4SDWFDTYQ6QV5685

Molly flattened the crayon-drawn map across Bill’s kitchen table, beside a bowl of cereal going soggy in orange juice. “Okay, genius. Explain again why we’re robbing a seven-year-old.” “Because,” Bill said, tapping the map with a butter knife, “young Timmy Tuggle’s birthday party has forty presents, one bouncy castle, and a security system consisting of Grandma Marjorie asleep in a deck chair.” “That’s not a security system. That’s a liability with orthopedic shoes.” “Exactly. In and out before cake o’clock.” Molly narrowed her eyes. “You said that about the petting zoo.” “That goat had accomplices.” “It was a goat.” “It had a little bell, Molly. Bells mean organization.” She snatched the butter knife before he could conduct another imaginary orchestra. “No costumes this time. Last birthday you dressed as a clown and got tackled by a magician.” Bill clutched his chest. “Pockets was a very convincing clown.” “You cried during the balloon animals.” “They were poodles, Molly. I have feelings.” Molly leaned over the map, where Bill had drawn a stick figure labeled “distracted dad” and a spiral labeled “jelly.” “We go in as caterers,” she said. “Nice aprons, blank faces, nobody remembers caterers.” “Brilliant. What are we catering?” “Nothing. That’s the beauty. We carry empty trays with confidence.” “Empty trays are lighter than full trays,” Bill said solemnly. “This is why you’re the brains.” “And why you’re the cautionary tale.” He grinned. “So we glide in, compliment the bunting, locate the present table—” “Which is under the banner shaped like a rocket.” “Correct. Then I create a diversion by releasing the frogs.” Molly froze. “What frogs?” Bill opened the fridge. Inside, beside the mustard, sat a Tupperware box labeled DO NOT KISS. “Backup frogs.” “Why are they in the fridge?” “They were getting ambitious.” “Bill, no frogs.” “One frog?” “No.” “A toad with a tiny hat?” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “If anything in a hat attends this crime, I’m walking.” “Fine. No amphibians. Instead, I shout ‘Look, the ice cream is achieving sentience,’ and while everyone panics, we load presents into the gazebo.” “The gazebo is decorative.” “Not with attitude.” She sighed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “And after? When forty children discover their gifts vanished like manners at a buffet?” Bill’s grin softened. “We leave one present behind. The weird one wrapped in newspaper. Nobody ever wants that.” “That was a bread maker last year.” “Exactly. Justice for Carol.” Molly looked at the map, the frogs, the cereal dissolving into orange soup, and Bill wearing sunglasses indoors for morale. “If we get caught,” she said, “I’m telling everyone you planned it.” “Fair,” said Bill. “If we don’t get caught, I’m telling everyone you cried at the poodles.” “That was you.” “History is written by the un-arrested.” Molly folded the map into a paper airplane and sailed it into the bin. “Aprons, empty trays, no frogs, no crying, no Grandma Marjorie.” Bill raised his juice-cereal bowl like a toast. “To Timmy Tuggle.” “To regretting this by cake o’clock.” Outside, somewhere down the street, a party blower gave a thin, doomed honk, and both of them pretended not to hear it.